


Three People Who Knew But Never Told

by LurkingCrow



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Family, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-09 09:29:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11101722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LurkingCrow/pseuds/LurkingCrow
Summary: Everyone knew that Luke Skywalker was the son of Anakin Skywalker. His mother is a mystery. But even two decades later there are still those who remember the senator from Naboo, and can put the pieces together.A brief look at a few characters who might have guessed the secret of Luke's parentage, but canonically either never did or never said so.





	1. The Senator

**Author's Note:**

> So I was up early waiting for Eurovision to start, and it struck me that actually, there were still quite a few characters around as of RotJ who could have had some idea about Luke’s parentage. And then this popped into my head - previously posted on [my Tumblr](https://lurkingcrow.tumblr.com/post/160640792189/i-need-to-stop-thinking-so-much-about-the-tragedy)

It is only after the frantic chaos of their retreat from the Yavin system dies down that Mon Mothma allows herself to stop and think about the rebellion’s newest hero. Before, there was no time to do anything more than rejoice in their good fortune, but now? His name is Skywalker. He was with General Kenobi. He carries a lightsaber and flies like he breathes and wears the face of a hero decades gone. She wants to laugh. “Where there is Kenobi, you will always find Skywalker not far behind”. It seems time could not change that fundamental truth.

As a senator Mon had known many of their Jedi protectors, but her interactions with the Republic’s most famous Generals had been surprisingly limited given their friendship with Bail and Padmé. She fights back the grief, both new and remembered, that rises at the memory of her friends. On the other hand, she thinks while blinking back tears, she had never been quite as recklessly brave as them, never had a reason to be on the front lines where the fighting was closer than the holocam footage ever showed.

But while she had never known Anakin Skywalker well, she knew enough to wonder at young Luke’s existence. While the Jedi were not necessarily celibate (as many a whispered tale would tell) they were dedicated to their calling, and the war had left little time for one of its busiest generals to have been involved in such liaisons with civilians. Also, Mon recalled overhearing more than a few conversations bemoaning the Hero With No Fear’s complete lack of interest in his more ardent fans. Yet somewhere out there had been a woman who had carried his child, who had passed on his name even as the Jedi were branded traitors to the Republic, who had given the Alliance this final piece of hope and she wondered…

“- coming from someone with the brains of a shaak doped up on gooja weed!”  
Her musings had apparently brought her all the way to the hanger where it seemed Leia was once again involved in vigorous debate with Captain Solo about his personal failings. To one side she can see Chewbacca leaning against a stack of crates while Skywalker physically inserts himself between the aggrieved parties in an attempt to stop things from turning physical. She would have continued walking past, perhaps made a note to gently tease Leia about it during their next meeting, except… Luke’s body language looked so familiar, like a vaguely remembered dream from years ago. Then he raises his hands and turns to each of them and Mon knows that tone of voice. Mon knows that smile. Mon knows that manner of peacemaking and had wept for the woman who wielded it like a weapon. And here it lives again in a boy from Tatooine. It doesn’t seem possible. But perhaps?  
She purposely marches herself towards the small group, making sure to keep her expression pleasantly neutral. Leia is the first to spot her, stopping mid word to stand a little straighter.  
“Mon! Is everything alright? Our meeting’s not for another couple of hours yet.”

“No, nothing to worry about.” She is quick to reassure the princess. “I just had some spare time in my schedule and thought I’d see how Lieutenant Skywalker is settling in. It can’t imagine it has been the easiest of transitions.”  
Luke flushes. “Uh, yes. I mean no, Ma'am, I’m fine.”  
Mon smiles kindly. “Good. No problems with the other pilots then?"  
"Oh no! Everyone’s been great!” His smile dims a little. “With all the losses it helps to have each other to hold on to you know? And apparently Biggs talked a lot, so Wedge says it’s like they already knew me a bit before we even met.”  
Internally Mon winces. The point of this talk had been to get a feel for the young man, not to raise ghosts barely laid to rest. Luke’s expression is decidedly reminiscent of a kicked puppy, and she takes the opportunity to keep the conversation moving. “I do know. We’ve lost a lot of good people in the last few weeks. Which is why we need to take good care of those of us left behind. I assume you’ve been checked over by medical?”

Luke rubs his shoulder. “Yes ma'am. I’m all up to date on my shots too. They were a bit peeved I couldn’t give them an exact birthdate for their personnel files though.”

Mon suspects she may regret this line of inquiry. “Oh? Difficulties converting the local calendar to galactic standard? I know binary systems can be tricky to convert. Still, I wouldn’t worry too much, as long are you are of age - the Alliance does try to avoid employing child soldiers wherever possible.”

That thought sends Captain Solo into a fit of laughter, and Mon sees Leia send a surreptitious kick his way which only seems to make him laugh harder. Luke is blushing again.

“Shut up Han! Uh, no Ma'am, actually converting my age’s never been a problem for me. It’s just…” His voice trails off. “ I was born sometime around Empire Day, the first one. Aunt Beru said they never knew for sure, just that I couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old when a friend of my parents left me with them.” His expression is bittersweet. “I’m guessing that was Old Ben. He might have known more, but I never got the chance to ask.”

There is a wealth of loss and regret in that statement and Mon struggles to process the implications. Leia, force bless her, has no such trouble, immediately moving to reassure her friend.

“Well! I’m glad I’m not the only one to suffer that particular irony!” She says, reaching up to loop an arm around his shoulder. “Officially we only celebrated the date on the Alderaanian calendar, but every year some Imperial lackey would comment on how lucky it was to have a princess who shared the Empire’s day of celebration.” Leia smiles wickedly. “And every year I would have to demonstrate the flammable nature of Imperial dress uniforms. It’s a shame how unpredictable fireworks can be isn’t it?”

Luke laughs, and in an instant the overall mood of the room lifts.  
Not to be left out, Solo interjects. “So you two share a birthday huh? I can see it. What with the tendency to destroy Imperial property and all it’s obvious - you two were clearly separated at birth. Shame their majesties kept the evil twin though!”

Leia’s semi-outraged shriek sends their newest hero further into a fit of choking laughter. It only becomes louder as the princess launches herself at the smuggler intent on wiping the smirk off his face, and soon Skywalker is doubled over, clutching at his stomach. To be fair, the non-stop litany of insults being wielded by both parties is impressive in its creativity.

Leia takes a moment from her assault to ensure his continued well-being before attempting to enlist him in her argument. “Luke, tell Han to stop being ridiculous!”  
As Luke looks up, Mon is taken back to the days of the Clone Wars and the footage of General Skywalker about to undertake one of his signature risky maneuvers, with a toothy grin and a calculating glint in bright blue eyes.

“Oh I don’t know. I always wanted a little sister! Even one who needs to curb her pyromania. Maybe I should arrange another dip in the waste system for you?”  
This time even Mon can’t keep a straight face as Leia attacks, laughing all the while, and sets about wrestling her teasing friends to the floor.

Obviously forgotten in the wake of some much needed levity, Mon turns to leave. Yet as their fond bickering fades into the background some clicks on her brain and Mon feels her heart begin to race. Luke Skywalker was born as the Republic fell. Padmé Amidala died as the Empire rose. Mon remembered the funeral, the cameras capturing the somber passage of the funeral bier, the blue silk of the burial dress and the white petals scattered around the face of the fallen senator.  
And her stomach, full and round with child.

She had wondered at the time who Padmé’s partner had been, why she had gone to such lengths to hide her impending motherhood, but now it all made sense. An affair with a Jedi, particularly one as high profile as Skywalker, would require the utmost secrecy to avoid both scandal and the loss of two of the Republic’s greatest assets from the ongoing war effort. It would also explain the mysterious circumstances surrounding her death - one of the Emperor’s political rivals, carrying a Jedi’s child in the midst of a bloody coup? She has no proof, but Mon’s gut tells her that the son of her old friend is currently standing in the hanger behind her, unknowing of his heritage and the danger it carries.

She decides then. General Kenobi had successfully hidden his friends’ child from imperial eyes for almost two decades. Now it is Mon’s turn to protect their legacy. With a firm nod the Chandrillan steadies herself and heads back to her office.

She has a lot to think about.


	2. The Niece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Second POV in this piece](https://lurkingcrow.tumblr.com/post/160710878009/i-need-to-stop-thinking-so-much-about-the-tragedy) , focusing less on Luke himself, but what he might represent in terms of his mother's legacy.

The first Pooja Naberrie hears of the Death Star’s destruction is as she sits in the study of her family home, contemplating her future now the Senate has been formally dissolved. She allows herself a moment of vicious glee, the primal part of her soul rejoicing in the vengeance unleashed upon the wicked, but never lets her thoughts show upon her face. Even now she is watched, her every move scrutinized for hints of sedition. The niece of Padmé Amidala is of course a loyal subject of the Empire, and should that change… well, the Naberrie family already has one martyr to the imperial cause, another will not be hard to arrange.

It hurts, almost as much as the initial loss, to see Aunt Padmé’s legacy twisted this way. Pooja may never know what truly happened all those years ago, but she knows the official story is a complete and utter lie. The Jedi would never have attacked one of their greatest allies, and regardless, Senator Amidala would never have given her support to the tyranny the Empire represented. Padmé Naberrie would not have stood by as democracy died. The woman who had her young niece close and told her to listen to her heart, to never back down from what she knew to be right - that woman would have proudly screamed her defiance to the galaxy even as she rallied an army against them. There is a reason after all that even now, decades after her death, the name still Amidala carries power. 

But open opposition is costly, not only to individuals but to all they hold dear, as the Empire has made abundantly clear. Being the Emperor's home planet gives them a certain level of protection, but Pooja is under no illusion that it will save any of them if they become even the slightest of threats. If it was just her life at stake then she might be bolder, remind the galaxy why Naboo did not fall. But Pooja is too much like her Aunt to allow her people to suffer for her own actions. She cannot risk it. Not now.

So instead Pooja paints her face with concern and composes a letter to the queen expressing her outrage at this latest atrocity against the rule of law. As she does she thinks about a young senator from Alderaan who would be laughing herself sick to see the double meanings she has managed to seamlessly sneak in to the message. She misses her friend, and prays she has found peace in the hereafter alongside her people. Certainly Pooja will have no peace until the Emperor has wrung every last drop of defiance from the people he once claimed to love.

Except, as it happens, Leia Organa is not dead. Nor apparently, are the Jedi. Rumours abound about Obi-Wan Kenobi appearing on the Death Star shortly before its final engagement, but it is the tale of a force sensitive pilot firing the fatal shot which grips the population. For a moment Pooja has a wild sense of hope - they never did confirm the death of the man she had once hoped to call Uncle Ani, and the similarities to the battle of Naboo are readily apparent- but reason once again takes over. The rumours describe a young man, not a battle tried veteran. Whoever this is it is not one of the heroes of old, but a continuation of their legacy. Even if it is not quite the same, Pooja gives thanks that the protectors of her youth are not yet finished, that they are still out there somewhere, still fighting for justice.

And then comes the bounty. It is not, of course, they type of thing that an Imperial bureaucrat (as the Emperor has seen fit to make her, slyly ensuring she is complicit in every unconscionable policy he deems necessary to implement) should concern herself with. But when Eirtaé, pale hair tied back in an unusually sloppy bun, enters her office one morning insisting there is a bulletin she needs to see Pooja sits up and listens.

She was not prepared.

It had been so long since she last saw the name Skywalker, not since the War when it had been plastered over every news report and billboard alongside other heroes of the Republic (how quickly things had changed). Yet the notice is clear. The Empire is offering a vast reward for the capture of one Luke Skywalker, rebel, formerly of Tatooine, preferably alive.

“It’s a relative. It has to be.”  
The words slip out of her mouth before she can stop to think. While she knows the room is clear, she ran a surveillance sweep less than an hour ago, Pooja chides herself for her lapse. She cannot afford to let her emotions get the better of her. Thankfully Eirtaé is similarly affected.  
“I agree. ” The former handmaiden looks torn between old sorrow and disbelief. “We looked, after Geonosis. Pa... the Senator had hoped she might be able to track down some other family members, but we had no luck. Still, just because we didn’t find any other Skywalkers doesn’t mean they didn’t exist.”

Neither dares to speak, even now, of the child who might once have borne that name. It does not mean they do not think it.

Pooja looks Eirtaé in the eyes, holding her gaze as she draws the older woman close.  
“Is it possible?”  
Eirtaé sighs heavily. “I don’t know. I wish I did. We don’t know enough, and I don’t think my contacts can get what we need. Sabé might have been able to, or maybe Rabé, but…”  
But Sabé had been on Alderaan, and Rabé had been missing since the explosion on Telos and with them went the carefully crafted information networks linking Naboo to the Rebellion. Without them they were flying blind, unable to either send or receive information from their allies. And for all her keen insight, Eirtaé was not made to navigate the shady paths of the underworld necessary to rebuild those connections.

Fiddling with the embroidery on her sleeves, Pooja turns to the window,  inhaling the sweet perfume of spring blossoms blowing in on the breeze.  She shouldn’t ask. Nothing good can come of it.  But… “What does your heart say?”

Eirtaé is silent. And that says it all.

With time comes an increased bounty, and also more information about the newest Skywalker.  He is elusive, evading capture through a combination of luck, skill and improbable plans that should never work. He flies like a dream, surviving situations that no pilot should be able to escape from. He is no true Jedi, not yet, but he carries a lightsaber and performs feats that defy the laws of physics. He associates with smugglers and royalty and somehow manages to charm them all (when she sees that the Princess of Alderaan is listed as one of his closest associates Pooja smiles - she can think of no greater character recommendation). He is young, and hopeful, and as yet untouched by the cynicism of war. He is exactly the kind of symbol the Rebellion has been crying out for.  
And the reward for his capture is higher than that of Alliance high command combined.

But it is the pictures that accompany the updated file which consume her thoughts. Luke Skywalker is blonde haired and blue eyed, with a familiar smile that gleams in the light of the explosions he leaves in his wake. It’s all too much of a coincidence. The looks, the piloting skills, the force sensitivity, the ability to cause chaos wherever he goes... There is no way this is anything but the son of Anakin Skywalker. And Anakin Skywalker had only ever had eyes for one woman.

Her fingers tighten around the datapad. Aunt Padmé. Queen, Senator, fearless warrior for justice. Lost far too young and greatly mourned. Back then Pooja had only been a small girl cloaked in black as she watched her Aunt’s bier progress through the streets of Theed, but she remembers. She remembers the heavy faces of the mourners, Naboo, Gungan and offworlders alike, as they laid Amidala to rest. She remembers, although she didn’t understand at the time, the solemn sadness that seemed to infect the very air for weeks afterwards. She had known, in her own childish way that her aunt had been important, that she had been good, and beautiful, and brave, but all that really mattered to her six year old self was that the woman who laughed and joked and sent her trinkets from far off planets was gone. It wasn’t until Pooja became older, and the pain of loss became less sharp, that she understood exactly how much her aunt had meant to their people as a whole. Padmé had been a loving, if somewhat distant, aunt. Amidala had been a legend.

As Queen she had led them to victory against insurmountable odds, had brought them an army with only her words and her heart and given them peace. As a senator, she had been a symbol of strength and integrity to which they could all aspire. Not pride nor power nor wealth could sway  her, and she would fight to the end for what was right.  She had given her all for their people, and they had loved her for it. And now the Empire claimed her memory.

Pooja had been twelve when she realised, shrugging off her teacher’s knowing looks as the pieces fit themselves together. What better way to cement the loyalty of a notoriously opinionated population than to claim the posthumous support of their most trusted advocate? And it was with horrified realisation that Pooja understood why Ryoo had never joined the junior legislative program, why her parents had been so adamant in asking her if this was truly what she wanted. She knew then why her teachers looked so sad every time she was looked so much like her lost aunt. But it was too late. In death Padmé Amidala had been used to bind her people to the Empire.  As a living legacy her niece could do the same.

She had managed to avoid being elected to the throne. Bad enough that her destiny was to become a puppet of a system she despised, Pooja would not allow herself to become a mere shadow of a woman long dead, no matter how much she might admire her. Still, she had eventually entered the Imperial Senate, and done her best to live up to her aunt’s ideals. It wasn't much. A slight modification to a bill here. A call for patience and reason there. Nothing blatently treasonous. And if she spent more time than might be expected alongside the openly defiant Senator for Alderaan, well what else would you expect from two young women in a position predominantly held by older sentients? And if their gossip sessions also happened to result in certain pieces of information being traded, then none of their minders ever noticed. And with that knowledge, bit by bit, Pooja Naberrie quietly stoked the fires of dissent. She learned how to phrase her speeches so as to subtly remind her people of the better days gone by. She wove traditional symbols into her hair, speaking of love and vengeance. She would make public service announcements reminding her people to obey all Imperial edicts, all the while reinforcing the freedoms they had lost. Pooja knew it wasn’t enough. She was no Amidala. She could not unite them all in open rebellion.

But the Son of Amidala might.

By all accounts Luke Skywalker has inherited both his parents' charisma and their unwavering dedication to a cause they believed in. Everything she has seen suggests that the rebel who destroyed the Death Star is not only talented and powerful, but also genuinely **good**.   
Pooja doesn’t know how they had hid him. She can only guess at the arrangements, although the reappearance of General Kenobi on Tatooine of all places gives her a good idea of who might have been involved. But she understands exactly why. Her cousin has grown up untouched by the darkness that lurks at the heart of the Empire. He stands alongside those who champion democracy, bringing hope to the downtrodden just as his mother might have done. Just by existing, Luke Skywalker could unravel the bonds that tie her people to their corrupt overlords.

Which made him very, very dangerous.

Pooja sighs, and looks again into the blue eyes captured by security footage from the last Alliance raid. Aunt Padmé and Uncle Ani would have been so proud of their son. She wishes they had lived to see what he might become. With a rueful smile she shakes her head and straightens her shoulders. She sends a quick message to Eirtaé  to arrange a meeting and then sets back to work.

Pooja’s cousin lived.  
And the Empire must never know.

Not until they were ready.


	3. The Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last piece of the POV series I [previously posted on tumblr.](https://lurkingcrow.tumblr.com/post/160812970264/i-really-need-to-stop-thinking-so-much-about-the/) Just a note that this chapter is darker than previous bits, please see warnings in tags. Also, I am absolutely ignoring a particularly silly piece of canon, because that character deserved better and if I ever write a followup to this I'm going to damn well make sure he gets to be part of the action!

Kix has heard the rumours. He’s seen the bounties. And yet he still cannot bring himself to hope.

Even now, sitting in the bar three doors down from the tiny shop where he plys his trade watching footage from the latest Rebel raid, his first thought had been that someone back on Kamino got a hold of his General’s gene specs and made themselves a shiny new Jedi. Kriffing longnecks never were picky if you had the credits. But the Skywalker Kix remembers was never quite that... short. The body shape’s wrong too - slighter and less broad in the shoulders. He bets is more like the Commander, all quick moves and acrobatics rather than powerful, unrelenting attacks the General favoured. On the other hand Kenobi had done his fair share of fancy footwork and he wasn't that smallest of men, so who knows how this one will turn out. If Empire doesn’t get him first, that is.

He takes a swig of his drink. Still better than the moonshine Coric used to make on board the _Resolute_. That stuff had only been good for sterilising medprobes and degreasing the dropships’ notoriously fickle fuel cells. Kriffing hell. The Rebellion has a Skywalker. One shiny enough not to realise just how big a target he has painted on his back. Of course if he’s anything like Kix’s general, it probably wouldn’t make much difference. _Jare jetii_! Too reckless for their own good. Always jumping into things and following some cryptic "will of the Force" poodoo that ends up with them right in the middle of the chaos. And now there’s one running about the galaxy without any of the _vod'e_ to watch his back like they should and…

Kix takes another, deeper, swallow. Two decades gone and the pain is as raw as ever. He’d been one of the lucky ones, he thinks. When the Captain came to him, wanting his chip removed, Kix had listened. He did the research, worked out how to reprogram the med droid, and handed Rex’s chip back himself. A fortnight later, with no signs of increased aggression or instability, Kix had put himself under and woke up with a new scar on his skull and a tiny piece of circuitry on the tray beside him. It looked so harmless at the time. Hardly the sort of sithing abomination it turned out to be! 

The second piece of luck came from Kix being deployed to the siege of Mandalore. He'd been torn at the time, happy to assist in liberating the planet their gene-donor had held so dear, but he'd worried about Skywalker. It was obvious how deeply the war was pressing on him, and he wasn't sure he could trust the other medics not to let him work himself into the ground. Now Kix can't help but be grateful for his assignment. It was bad enough to stand and watch Order 66 take hold and his brothers become nothing more than meat-clankers. But to see them betray that which they once would have died to protect? If he had been on Coruscant with the rest of the 501st, if he had taken part in the Temple massacre? Kix shudders.

He still doesn’t know where or how his general had fallen. He doesn't know if he'd lived to see his men turn on him or if he'd been caught by surprise like so many of his fellow Jedi. The most likely scenario was that he’d been in the Temple when that scum-sucking sithspawn Vader led the purge, but Kix can’t be sure. If he did, he hopes Skywalker gave the Sith hell. Kix can’t imagine he went down without a fight. But Vader is a monster, and his brothers weren’t amateurs... 

He pushes away his imagination. It doesn't matter. A month after Rex disappeared into the chaos following E-Day Kix had gone searching for answers. There were none to be found. Their reinforcements from the main regiment, the ones who’d been on Coruscant were adamant. The Jedi were traitors. Why was he asking about them? Desperate, he’d convinced one of the veteran troopers, Nax, to let him remove his chip, citing potential damage from a CIS shell. The horrified scream of realisation will haunt Kix for the rest of his days. Nax was broken. Over and over he whispered a frantic litany of apologies interspersed with desperate demands to know “why?”. When his brother’s sobs had died down Kix embraced him, told him it wasn’t his fault. Nax had looked him in the eye and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We were made for the Jedi. And we slaughtered them.” He said no more. Two days later he ate his own blaster. Kix didn’t attempt any more chip removals.

That was when Kix started seriously considering going AWOL and setting himself up on some backwater world like Cut had years before. He couldn’t keep going like this. When it became obvious that whatever dubious protections the Republic had once afforded it’s troops no longer applied in the Empire, and casualty rates rose to heights not seen since Krell and the Umbara campaign, Kix enacted his plan. It was heartbreakingly easy to slip away in the night, a quick slice adding his designation to the list of that days losses before hopping onto the first ship offworld. In the end it hadn’t been necessary. Six days after his transport docked at Botajef the insurrectionist bombing of the local garrison hit the waves. Torrent company, like the rest of his past, was gone. For a while he drifted, hopping from system to system avoiding Imperial sweeps and trying to forget how his joints ached with increasing frequency. Now here he was, old beyond his years, patching up broken knees and blaster wounds in a back alley clinic on Ison and pretending the galaxy hadn’t stopped making sense twenty years ago.

Though, looking at the footage of the Rebel’s latest raid, maybe things were beginning to look up. Kix watches as the rebels on screen fight their way back to their ship, the camera stopping to zoom in on their faces. Even if the shiny Jedi wasn’t a clone, he definitely had Skywalker’s genes. That stubborn look had been the bane of any sane clone, a warning that the General was planning something foolhardy. And come to think of it… He watches the replay, as this new Skywalker tucks away his lightsaber to grab the blaster offered by his companion (Organa’s daughter? He’d always seemed a good sort for a civvie. Nice to see he’d passed his competence on) and shoot at the oncoming security forces.

It’s an unlikely move for a Jedi, but his aim is superb. His look of concentration is also vaguely familiar and… Oh Sithspit! Kix is a damn idiot. That’s the Senator’s expression! Amidala always had been a damn fine shot. Smart too. Add in her looks and insistence on treating them all like individuals and there were few in the 501st who weren’t at least a little taken by their General’s lady. Not that their admiration wasn’t obvious. General Skywalker hadn’t taken the nose art, or the drinking songs, particularly well, for all that he agreed with the sentiment. Kix smiles. Honestly, and they thought they were being so sneaky! He silently offers a toast to their memory. Wherever their spirits ended up, he hopes they’re together. They deserved that much at least.

His nostalgia doesn’t last long. Whatever small joy he takes from knowing a part of that remarkable couple lives on is quickly subsumed by the overwhelming wave of guilt. They’d failed this one too. Skywalker Jr might have made it to adulthood, but he was clearly not as well trained as he should have been. Would have been, had the Jedi lived. Had the Republic not fallen. Had his brothers not been made to betray all they loved. The boy might have his father’s uncanny piloting skills but based on his bounty? The Empire’s gunning for him hard. One day they’re going to catch up with him, and when they do… the kid’s no match for Vader. Nobody alive is a match for Vader.

Kix swallows the last drops in his glass. What can be do? Once, he might have packed his bags and set off  to stop the kid from getting himself killed through typical Jedi heroics. But despite his chronological age Kix is an old man. It’s been years since he was anywhere near fit for combat. And even if he did make it through to the rebellion, the role the clones played in the fall of the Republic is well known. How could he even begin to explain?

Truthfully though, Kix knows He’s afraid. Call him a coward but he cannot take the risk of getting to know another Skywalker, of regaining his purpose, only to watch the Empire take it all away again. He orders another drink. No. They’re both better off if Kix stays right where he is and forgets all about Jedi and generals and fighting the good fight. His war is done.

…For now, anyway.


End file.
